


the bright sunlight

by newsiees



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, also crutchie the wise soul, also slight blush, also spot & jack & crutchie are foster bros, background javid, like not rly background though more like JAVID, medda rocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsiees/pseuds/newsiees
Summary: the words Spot thought he'd never see.





	the bright sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> hey buds! so spot is very important to me and so is this fic and so are all of you.

_The Outsiders_ and the outsider, sitting at the round cafeteria table. Noise surrounds and Spot cannot focus. Maybe he’s nervous, but he’s certain that can’t be it. 

The grey table has eight round seats, seven empty. It is tucked into the unknown of the vast hall and Spot is tucked with it. This is the first foster home that has caused him to switch out of Brooklyn and into the Manhattan school district. He decides it will be the last. 

He is starting to comprehend the words of his book, gripping the well-worn cover as his brain recites the words he’s already memorized. He begins to turn the page, looking up to grab his water and finding himself staring into a smile. God, that thing is bright. 

He does not speak to the kid - he is short and full with bright skin and curly hair. Spot knows quickly that he could take him in a fight. 

“Hi, I’m Racetrack. You can call me Race.” 

Spot stares at him, eyebrows lowering. He doesn’t plan on calling him anything. 

“Can I sit with you?” 

Spot is too taken-aback to refuse. Why would someone so friendly want to sit at a table where he cannot make a friend? 

And then Race starts to talk.

He has already gone through most of his sixth grade schedule within the first minute and said at least two words in a different language, apologizing the first time but failing to notice the second. Spot does not realize that he is listening until Race describes his friend, Jack. 

“Jack?” His voice is small. He had not spoken before. 

“Jack Kelly. You probably know him. He does everything! He leads every sport team, paints almost everything you see on the walls, and knows everyone…” Race is still talking as Spot processes the name. He’s almost sure that Jack Kelly was the name of the one of the other boys in his foster home.

Race continues to talk through the entire lunch and Spot lets him. Spot does not want to talk and the room is noisy anyways. 

The bell rings and Race leaves with a bounce, saying goodbye and thanking the other boy for hanging out with him. Spot blinks. He had not done anything for Race. 

***

For some reason that failed to present itself to Spot, Race came back. Every day. He brought his voice and Spot put his book down. He had listened at his foster home and discovered that Jack Kelly really was in the next room over. Spot almost laughed at the coincidence. 

It took a few days, but Race finally remembered to breathe and decided to ask Spot a question. Spot heard it, head down, and took it in, but did not realize it was a question directed at him. 

After finally hearing Race repeat himself a few times, Spot shook his head at his book before turning to raise an eyebrow. 

“I said, what’s your name? I can’t believe we’ve been friends for almost a week and I never learned your name!” Race was laughing and Spot almost leaned too far over and fell. After a second to compose himself, Spot dared eye contact.

“Spot.” 

“Spot? 

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

Race laughed, bigger than usual. He felt accomplished. 

“Nothing, I like it!” 

Spot ducked his head, facing the comfort of his book, and prepared to listen.

“So, Spot, whatcha reading?” 

Spot didn’t turn this time, heart beating too fast. He wasn’t supposed to socialize here. Had Race called him his friend? 

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird._ ” 

“That sounds good. You like to read?” Race had to lean in to hear Spot. Spot certainly was not going to move closer.

“I guess.” 

“Why?” Race was relishing in his triumph and decided he would harvest as much information as he could about his friend.

Spot had never thought about it. He didn’t enjoy thinking about the comfort and escape that he craved from books either. He didn’t need that stuff. It was just fun.

“Books are painless.” What the heck did that mean? Spot decided he was done talking. 

“I like that.” Race took a breath, ready to start again, but Spot’s flickering eyes warned him not to.

“Well, thank you for talking to me. Same place tomorrow?” 

Spot did not reply but Race took that as a yes. 

Days past with laughter. Spot always listened Race. 

***

Months after Race became Spot’s friend at the start of the school year, on a Tuesday night in February, Jack mentioned Race at the dinner table. 

Jack Kelly was outgoing and fearless. He was not afraid of Spot’s prickly glares. From Spot’s first day at Medda’s, where Jack had already been for three years, Jack was fond of finding words that made Spot scowl. Spot respected it. He and Jack had an agreement by this Tuesday night. They fiercely made the other one uncomfortable, but would not let anyone else do the same. 

“So, Spot, I’m hearing that sometimes you voluntarily talk at school. Should I prepare for the apocalypse?” 

Spot rolled his eyes. 

“It’s not good to spread rumors, Jack Kelly. But I guess it must be the only reason people voluntarily talk to you, huh.” 

Medda blinked over her mashed potatoes, unsurprised but unapproving. 

“Boys, be nice.” 

Jack’s eyes sparkled with ammunition. Spot glared. 

“You know Race is my best friend too. I could find out everything about you.” 

“I don’t tell him anything. I don’t even talk to him.” 

“Getting defensive?”

“He’s not my best friend. He’s not even my friend.” 

“Don’t tell him that. Don’t wanna break the kid’s heart, do you? He’s always so excited after lunch.” 

“Why doesn’t he just sit with you?” Spot’s words were challenging. Truthfully, he asked himself this question every day.

“You gonna tell him to?” 

“Maybe.” He wasn’t.

“No, you won’t.” 

“I don’t want to subject anyone to spending any extra time with you. That would just be cruel.” 

“It’s okay to have friends, Spot. Friends remind you that there’s love in the world.” 

Spot, Jack, and Medda turned towards the other boy at the table, struck by the contrasting kindness at dinner. Crutchie smiled at them, knowing he had successfully disrupted the argument. Spot tried not to scowl. Crutchie always ended arguments without a fair winner and it was incredibly aggravating; this time, Crutchie’s smirk was both annoying and relieving. At least the conversation was over. 

“You’re right, Crutch,” Jack said, smiling fondly. They had been at Medda’s together for years. Crutchie, a grade below them, had become Jack’s brother. Spot did not think about becoming brothers with these boys. 

With that, Medda called the boys to clean up the table and settle down for the night. Spot was almost to his room when he heard his name. Jack was calling him from his own door.

“Hey, you know you’re welcome to sit with us at lunch. Don’t be scared of me. We’re brothers now.” 

Spot glared at Jack. Jack returned to his room, knowing he was not going to get a reply. Spot did not think about becoming brothers with these boys. 

***

Spot and Race did not move to Jack’s lunch table until the next year when the two seventh graders found a few nervous sixth graders sitting at their hidden table. They laughed as if it hadn’t been them the year before. 

Jack’s friends were fun, Spot decided. Race had been loud, but the group was louder. Spot decided this was the main drawback. He did not have the same quiet time that he had gotten with Race. As if it was the noise. 

His new friends liked Spot. He was grumpy and snarky, but they found this amusing. A thoughtful boy, called Davey, was delighted when he saw Spot walk towards the table with a book every day. He talked to Spot more often than Spot would have liked, but the conversations were always enjoyable. 

Race stuck by Spot. Once, when the group was yelling at unbelievable volumes, Race had turned to Spot and said, “What, you scared of a little noise?” Spot wasn’t sure why he remembered this moment. Maybe it was the way Race said it, as if he truly wanted an answer. Maybe it was because he had noticed that Spot was uncomfortable. 

That had been eighth grade. 

Eighth grade had been the year Spot decided maybe it would be okay to use the word ‘friend.’ In a formal, invulnerable way. It was just a title, like a job that sensibly labels what someone does. Spot never got attached. This was the longest he had stayed at a foster home. People only like charity when it’s easy.

Race talked to adults as if he was one. Medda loved him. He came over every day after school and Medda was always excited to see him. Spot didn’t know why. Medda never hung out with the boys. Why would she want him to come over?

Jack and Crutchie were always there too. And sometimes Davey. They were all in the same friend group, so Spot thought that this was also practical. 

“What next?” Jack asked from an old armchair in the basement, legs thrown over one armrest as if he had been there for hours. They had been. 

“Cards?” Race suggested. He always suggested cards. 

“I’m sick of playing rummy with you,” Jack sighed. 

“You’re sick of _losing_ rummy to me,” Race teased, sending a confident grin to Spot from the other side of the couch. In terms of making fun of Jack, they were a good team.

Race looked back towards Jack and his chair. Jack always claimed the same armchair, the only armchair. Crutchie stretched out on one of the couches, legs extended. He always looked so relaxed on that couch. His right leg had never developed properly so it curved before his knee and twisted at his ankle. It seemed like Crutchie had traded a proper leg for optimism. 

Race, Davey, and Spot sat on the other couch, which was comfortable enough. Crutchie always offered a spot on his couch, which Davey had taken once, sitting at Crutchie’s feet. That had only happened once because Spot and Race could not be trusted on the couch together. They were both too eager to pick a fight. Therefore, Davey was the designated mediator. 

“How about poker?” Race finally asked. Spot and Jack knew how to play already so they taught Davey and Crutchie that night. Neither of them asked how the others had learned poker.

They played a lot of poker, mostly for toothpicks or candy. Sometimes for Davey to do their homework. Race won most of the time, but Spot would occasionally beat him. Spot never kept what he won. 

***

The start of high school was uncomfortable. The small boys were thrown into a big world. Spot was only in art class with Race, Crutchie was still a year below in middle school, and he almost never saw Jack anymore. He had joined the football team along with every other team. Try hard. 

But they still had lunch. 

“Hi, Jack!” Davey was always glad to see Jack. 

“Hey, Dave. Good day so far?” 

“Yeah.” Davey smiled. Spot knew he was glad to see his best friend. Jack spent a lot of his time practicing for something or other. 

“Wanna go for a walk, Spot?” Race asked, raising his eyebrow at Spot as he frequently did.

“Huh? Right now?” Today he was reading _A Tale of Two Cities_. 

“Yes, Spot. Let’s go.” He grabbed the book and Spot’s elbow, yanking him off his stool. They were soon walking around the empty fields. 

“Why are we here?” 

“I wanted to give Davey and Jack some alone time.”

“Alone time?”

“Yeah,” Race said quietly. The unfamiliar volume of Race’s voice made Spot’s heartbeat quicken. Spot was wondering how to make Race less nervous without caring, watching Race run his fingers over Spot’s book. 

“You ever hear Davey talk about girls?”

“No.” All Davey talked about was school. And his friends. Spot was wondering what this had to do with Race’s small voice. 

“Yeah. Me either.” Race kicked at the dirt, creating clouds of dust. “I hope he knows he can trust us.” 

“He does.” 

Race stopped walking and looked at Spot. Race was not smiling like he usually was. The skin underneath his eyes was darkened and his lips were chapped. Spot smiled at him. 

“Are you smiling?” Race was laughing now. Spot decided he had been successful. 

“Maybe.” 

“What a day.” Race was grinning now. He handed Spot’s book back to Spot and rubbed his shoulder in gratitude, slowing his movements. 

“Let’s go back inside.” Spot followed him. 

***

Davey didn’t come over as often without Jack there. Crutchie had joined the middle school’s drama club in order to make friends at his own school, which of course worked. Crutchie was contagious. But it also made Davey less keen on coming over. Spot and Race were either fighting or laughing over an inside joke. It wasn’t ideal for Davey. Plus, Jack always had some game for Davey to attend. 

By the end of freshman year, Spot and Race had watched every movie they had ever wanted to watch, plus too many they despised. They were a tough pair to impress. 

It was the summer before sophomore year when Medda walked down into the basement to find Spot and Race arguing over _The Lion King_. They were on their couch, facing each other as they teased one another. Race was on his knees with his finger in Spot’s face. Spot was cross legged with his hands gripping his knees, leaning forward to maximize his threat. Medda took a picture before announcing her presence. 

“Boys?”

They snapped out of their world, faces eased and knees touching. Race grinned at Medda with all of his teeth. Maybe it was that smile which caused Medda to adore Race’s presence, Spot thought. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I just need to talk to Sean for a few minutes.”

Spot smiled at Race, as he had begun to do more often, before standing and silently following Medda upstairs. 

“Hey, honey. I wanted to ask you how you would feel if I adopted you.” 

Spot blinked. A home?

“Yeah. That’d be okay.” 

***

Sophomore year meant Crutchie joined their lunch table again. He brought a friend: some baby-faced kid named Mush. He was sweet and it gave Crutchie someone to talk to. Davey and Jack were arguing more often. Spot and Race were arguing less often to give them room to do so. 

“Pot, Jack? You know that’s a drug, right?” 

“Jesus, Davey. How old are you?” 

“I just hope you know how marijuana can disrupt the functioning of your brain cells...” 

At the other side of the table, Spot and Race tuned them out.

“I just hope Jack doesn’t leave this lunch table. Davey would go mad,” Race whispered to Spot, leaning against his elbow to turn his body towards his friend. 

“You’re worried about him,” Spot whispered in response. 

“Jack is really important to Davey.” Race was watching the two of them argue. His eyes were full of pity, but the way Race was avoiding Spot’s eye made Spot think of fear. 

***

The two of them were sitting in Spot’s basement the next week. Race liked to come over and Spot always opened the door. 

They went to Race’s house occasionally, but they preferred Spot’s basement. 

Mrs. Higgins was a plump lady who was always wearing an apron. She smelled like basil and always gave Spot a hug. Mr. Higgins was a large man and an in-charge man. He seemed friendly enough, always smiling at Spot and Race when they came home, but the fur of his mustache created the countenance of a fan egging on a wrestling match. Appropriately, Mr. Higgins was a strong proponent of the philosophy “boys will be boys.” 

Alas, Spot and Race only had Race’s small bedroom to hang out in at the Higgins apartment and it had no television. The television in the living room was always taken by Race’s little sisters. They loved Spot and it freaked him out. The Higgins family was full of huggers. 

Race was sitting on the floor, sifting through the DVDs on the bookshelf. He was talking about something and Spot was absentmindedly replying, monotonous as he lounged on the couch with his arms stretched out along the back cushion, watching Race. 

Race had decided on a movie and popped it into the old player before jumping on the couch beneath Spot’s forearm. The cloth of Race’s t-shirt was soft, Spot noticed. Race shivered.

“I think we should have our own Christmas this year.” 

“What?” Spot turned to face Race. Race had a freckle right below his hairline. 

“Us boys. You know, like after our family stuff. The twenty-sixth or something.

“Okay.” Spot had never expected to have _two_ Christmases, let alone one. 

“No gifts or anything. I’ll cook and Crutchie will probably help. He likes to mash potatoes, doesn’t he? We’ll have to use Medda’s kitchen - my house is a no-go - but she’s so awesome that she’ll let us have our day. Jack and Davey will get along if it’s just our friends. They really do like to get along. Plus, then we’ll be able to argue some. I miss arguing with you.” 

“Anytime you want, Higgins. I will fight you and win.” The hair on Race’s eyebrows was almost auburn. 

“It’s not like you never have the opportunity.” When was the last weekend Race slept at his own house? “Anyways, you tell your brothers and I’ll find a way to break it to Davey. It’s too late this year, but maybe next year I can get my grandma to make extra raviolis. Mine barely compare, you _have_ to try hers.” 

“Got it.” Spot was too busy thinking about how Race needed some chapstick to realize he was making traditions. 

***

Christmas was joyful. Medda bought Spot an e-reader that he hadn’t stopped staring at. Jack made fun of him Christmas morning. Race took it from him the next day and replaced it with a package. 

“I know I said no gifts, but I saw this and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” 

Spot tore off the funny pages and found himself staring at a fresh copy of _The Outsiders_. 

“I noticed yours was all banged up. Funny how you read it at least once a year.” Spot found it funny that no one else got anything wrapped in funny pages. 

***

The year almost seemed to drag. It was hotter than usually and the aggressions of high school years only added to the heat. Davey and Jack were grimly dedicated to each other, always softening their quarrels before anything dishonest was said. Spot learned from them that disagreements do not demean friendship. 

Summer did come. Spot’s purple fingers were thankful. His basement was just cool enough and he found himself there with Race every day. Some things never change. 

“I’m bored. We always just sit here and watch movies,” Race whined one Thursday at the end of June, dramatically laid across the couch, head propped up by Spot’s thigh.  

Spot looked down at Race. He couldn’t decide if Race was tanned or sunburned.

“You want to go home?” 

Race seemed startled by the suggestion. He met Spot’s eyes. They were hard and emotionless. Spot had many years of practice at keeping them neutral. 

“No, never.” Race sighed grandly, attempting to cut the atmosphere. “I just want to do something different with you, that’s all.” 

Spot was staring at the wall now. There was a crack in the plaster, traveling down to the trim in an immaculate line of white. He could see the cement crumbling. 

“Like what?” 

“I dunno.” Race was sitting up now, slumping against the back cushion now.

“What’s got you so moody?” Spot watched the plaster fall. If he turned his head, he could smell the pasta sauce that always lingered in Race’s breath. 

“Nothing, I’m good. What do you want to do?” 

“What do you want to do, Race?” Spot let his head fall back, letting it roll to face his friend. Race had a curl loose around his right ear. 

And then Race kissed Spot. And then Spot kissed Race. What else is there?

“Sean! Anthony! Do you want me to order a pizza?” 

Spot leapt onto his feet, leaving Race giggling under his breath. Spot had the sense to turn on the previously blank tv. Medda reached the bottom stair as Spot was resettling on the couch, skin a calculated distance away from Race’s. 

“Jack won’t be home until later and I think Charlie is sleeping over Michael’s house but I’m happy to order some pizza for the three of us.” Medda was unphased. They were watching the Food Network. 

“Thank you for always taking care of me, Medda. I would love some pizza.” How was Race unphased? Spot dared a glance. Race was smiling up at Medda. 

“You’re a gift to this family, Anthony. Extra cheese?” They nodded as she pulled out her cell phone, walking back upstairs. “I’ll call you two up when it comes.” 

Twelve steps on steps and a door pulled closed. One second, two seconds, three seconds…

Race started to laugh. It was almost nervous, the way it consumed him. Spot only had to look over, to glimpse the sparkle in Race’s eye, before he erupted into laughter alongside his friend. 

They bent at the waist, foreheads closer, as they held their stomachs and the other’s shoulder and laughed and laughed and laughed…

***

This began to happen a lot. Spot found he liked the taste of pasta sauce and Race’s laughter, which shouldn’t have surprised him. Not when Race’s laughter had become the white noise in his head as he tried to fall asleep at night. 

No one should know, they decided. No one would understand, they reasoned. Spot didn’t even understand. He didn’t want to. Not when he was stretched upon Race, hip bones sharp against Race’s stomach, long legs taking his toes beyond Race’s soles. Race’s t shirt was pulled down, the threads of the collar snapping with the inattention. Race was giggling. Spot was smiling against Race’s chest, purposefully low on Race’s torso. Spot was careful. 

***

Junior year made Davey wild. He was constantly shaking, blood full of caffeine and anxiety. Jack spent less time with the football team. Davey needed him. 

That was why Spot and Race found themselves joined by Davey and Jack in their basement. Race didn’t seem bothered. He could laugh anywhere, always grinning as bright as the sun even in the rain of Jack and Davey’s bickering. It was humorous to them now too. Jack and Davey were always on the verge of praise. 

Spot, consistent with his pointed, pithy attitude, sat silently on his and Race’s couch, leaning a breath towards Race’s shoulder. Race always moved closer when he laughed, anyways.

“Is this all you guys have been doing without us? Watching stupid movies?” Jack was teasing. Davey was finally relaxing. 

Race looks at Spot and Spot looks back. They laugh together and Race’s hand twitches.

“This is literally all we ever do.” 

***

Time went on, as it usually does. Davey and Jack were fun (they had all grown fond of playing old board games now) and Spot and Race still had their own time together. God bless Jack’s busy schedule. Junior year was busy in itself and sometimes all Spot and Race did together was homework. Spot always seemed to have more. 

“Less than three months and we’re seniors,” Race realized in mid-April. He was laying on Spot’s bed, surrounded by math worksheet after math worksheet, with an occasional textbook.  

“Wild.” Spot was perched at the top of his bed, tucked into himself atop his pillows with one hand on his book and the other tapping his pencil against Race’s ankle. 

“We’re the same age as all those teenagers in every movie we’ve ever watched. We have all that high school stuff going on.” 

“All that high school stuff.” 

“Yeah, like sweet sixteens and drama and prom and everything.” 

“Racetrack, we haven’t experienced any of that.” 

“Yeah, well maybe we should.” 

“You wanna get into a fight? Start some drama?” Spot’s book was closed. He was on page 258. 

“Well, we _could_ do that.” Race was sitting up now, cross legged and facing Spot. 

“What, you don’t want to fight with me? Know you’d lose?” Spot leaned forward, chin up but eyes on Race. 

“Don’t wanna lose anything.” Spot leaned back. Race continued. “How about prom?” 

“You should go if you want to.” 

“How about you?” Race knew Spot. He made vicious eye contact with Spot, knowing he would lock into vulnerability. 

“I dunno. That’s a lot of money.” Spot couldn’t look away. 

“Medda was excited to hear that Jack is going.” 

“Yeah, but he’s going with Sarah. I don’t have a girlfriend or anything.” Or anything. 

“Go alone. It’ll be fun,” Race broke the thin ice. “I’ll be there.” 

Spot decided he would consider it.

***

Prom night was foggy and damp. Walking through the air required pushing through heavy mist. You could only see what was right in front of you. Spot wasn’t even sure he could see that. 

Sarah and Jack looked good. They matched and exemplified high school. Davey had gotten his friend from newspaper club, Katherine, to join him for the night. She was Sarah’s best friend so the two pairs coexisted wonderfully. 

Mush was able to attend prom too, standing in Medda’s dining room with a blushing hand in his boyfriend’s. Kid Blink, as the baseball team called him, was a junior and a good friend of Jack’s. Crutchie was delighted by his best friend’s success. Spot was delighted that no one seemed to mind the entwined hands of two boys. 

Race looked good. Spot decided he could think this because Race seemed like he had tried to look good. As Race’s best friend, Spot felt like he was in the proper position to confirm his friend’s intentions.

“You look good, Higgins.” Spot nodded up at his friend from where he was sprawled on a dining room chair. His long legs always seemed to tangle him. 

Race seemed a little startled that Spot had said these words out loud to him. Usually they were only told through laughing kisses on ears or soft fingers trailing upon hidden skin. Race was always good at poker though. Neutrality was clear to those who did not know him like Spot did. 

“You bet I do, Conlon.” Spot got up, watching Medda take a picture of Davey tying Jack’s tie. Crutchie was trying to help Blink pin the flower onto Mush. Sarah and Katherine had gone to the bathroom, Spot remembered vaguely. 

Race was close to Spot now. He knew from experience that if he tilted his head slightly to the left he would be in the prime position to kiss Race. He didn’t. Not even when Race complimented his bowtie. 

They stood on opposite ends of the group during pictures. Spot wasn’t sure who initiated that. It just happened. Purposefully. 

Spot didn’t eat anything at prom. It was in a local country club with fake plants and everything in the room made him too crazy to eat.

The eight of them sat at a round table; Katherine and Sarah had let Davey and Jack sit next to each other. Blink and Mush had been long lost to the dance floor. Race was next to Spot. Spot was thankful. 

Easy conversation breezed through the suffocating club. Race was relaxed and lounged on the crafted wooden chair. Spot was leaned on his elbow, listening to Race talk about how a random couple had gotten together. Spot thought for a moment that he could be doing this anywhere else much more comfortably. The birthmarks creeping down Race’s neck, journeying beneath the collar of his tuxedo, helped Spot accept his situation. 

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Race said suddenly. He was laughing. At what, Spot didn’t know. He didn’t respond as he watched Race wink at him before pushing in his chair and leaving the hall. 

Spot watched his friends talk across the table. They were laughing at something when Jack noticed Spot watching them.

“What do you think, Spot?” 

“I think I’m going to the bathroom.” Spot was getting up now, locating the door which he had watched Race walk through. If Race could find the bathroom, so could Spot. 

Upon walking out of the grand hall, Spot did not find the bathroom. He found a long hallway instead, carpeted by the seventies. The pale blue foam beneath his feet led Spot a little ways down the strip before a hand interrupted his search, pulling him through a door Spot had not noticed. He soon found himself pressed against the very same door. Pressed against himself, Spot realized, was Race. 

“Hey, you.” Race was breathing heavy.

“Find the bathroom?” Spot commented, looking around what seemed to be a cleaning closet. He was too distracted to wonder why the country club had such a large cleaning closet. 

“Nah, but I _did_ find you.” 

Spot let Race kiss him for a while, relaxing for a sweet second. After relishing in the warmth of Race’s actions and the shiver of Race’s hands, Spot angled his body to push Race against the door. Spot did not stop to appreciate Race’s beautifully crisp white shirt, hastily unbuttoning it so that he could press his teeth into Race’s skin. Spot noticed every birthmark. Race’s skin was more important to Spot than any shirt. Race laughed and Spot continued, down and down. Everything in the room was making Spot crazy. 

*** 

Race left the room first, an uncountable number of minutes later. Spot recited the first lines of _The Outsiders_ to calm himself as he waited to leave. Distracted, he took a wrong turn and ended up outside the actual bathroom. He went inside. Might as well. 

“Spot!” Jack was washing his hands when Spot walked in. He didn’t respond. 

“I thought you went to the bathroom ages ago.” Jack’s cheeks were red and he was glowing. He looked to Spot like someone who had just been kissed. 

“Needed some fresh air. You having fun?” Spot was leaning against the door frame. 

“Yeah, lots. You?” 

“Mmhmm.” You could say that. 

***

The summer before senior year left Spot and Race breathless. Preparing for college left them with much to do. They were forced to run through the summer. Any time left to catch their breath was spent taking the other’s away. 

The schedule of September was welcomed thankfully. Weekdays were usually spent at Spot’s, usually taking them to Spot’s room. To do homework, of course. Race had a hard time resisting the television and the noise of the after school programs irritated Spot. Spot was less irritated when Race had a hard time resisting Spot. 

Their homework always got done, however. Spot worked as if it was his means of survival. Race thought Spot believed it was. 

That is why Race woke up one Friday night in April - or perhaps Saturday morning - to find the light on. Spot was sitting at his desk, writing furiously. 

“Babe, come back to bed.” Race’s voice was comfortable. 

“Don’t call me that.” Spot didn’t stop moving his pencil. 

“Spot, come back to bed.” Race was rolling his eyes, knowing Spot’s ears were turning red. 

Spot stopped his pencil and turned back to look at Race, arm over the back of his chair. His fingers were agitated and bending. He was thinking elsewhere, but he smiled at Race. 

“I just thought of something and I had to add it to this.” 

“What are you writing?” 

“Just a speech.” Spot was mumbling, turning back to his desk. 

“Why do you have to write a speech? You gonna talk?” Race’s tone was teasing and inquisitive. He knew that is he never asked, he’d never know. 

“They said I have to. For graduation.” Spot hadn’t started writing again. 

“For graduation? But only the valedictorian speaks at graduation.” 

“Yeah.” 

Race almost screamed (only remaining silent for the sake of poor Medda), throwing the sheets back and galloping over to Spot. 

“You’re valedictorian?” Race whispered, hands holding Spot’s face softly. His thumb trailed a brush of freckles. That Irish skin. 

“I guess.” Spot’s ears were very warm. 

“You work so hard,” Race bent to ease Spot’s lips to his own, eventually kneeling as Spot responded. 

Spot broke the kiss, smiling subtly at the proud grin that dazzled Race’s face. 

“So are you saying that you thought of something for your _valedictorian speech_ while you were lying in bed with me?” 

Spot made a face. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“How romantic,” Race teased, smirking as he took his hands off of Spot’s face. 

Spot faced his desk again, moving his legs under the table. 

“Not really. We’re not dating or anything.” 

Race stood, looking around the room. They were both wearing a pair of Spot’s boxer shorts. Race had just caressed Spot’s face and received a smile in return. They had done this so many times before. 

“Why do you have to lie to yourself?” Race spoke quietly as he returned to the bed, curling with his back to Spot. 

“We’re not dating.” Spot said, reminding himself. 

“Yeah, but we sure are doing _something_.” 

“Yeah.” Something Spot was thankful for. 

*** 

Graduation day came, as all days do. Spot lead the march of robed graduates through the gymnasium, echo of rain against the roof. Race cried when he spoke. Perhaps others did too. Peers he did not know approached Spot afterwards to compliment him on his work or his words. Not one of them had wanted to hear his words before. Perhaps someday people will learn to listen to others. 

Groups of solid colored seniors huddled in the school afterwards, snapping emotional pictures and reminiscing about the years they had spent together. Spot walked through the flowing sea of family. He saw the Jacobs family taking a clumsy family photo, David shaking and Sarah glowing. Sarah caught Spot’s eye and winked. Spot smiled back. A lot had changed. 

His journey led him to find Medda taking a picture of Jack holding Crutchie. Crutchie - still littler than the rest of them - was laughing and laughing. Spot laughed at his brothers. He didn’t even notice his mind had called them his brothers. 

Further down the hall, Blink waved at him. He had an arm around Mush’s shoulders, talking to a group of boys who were presumably on the baseball team with him. They were all smiling. Spot considered the reactions. 

Still, Spot continued. He had seen some younger Italian girls closer to the gym. The youngest, who was fascinated with Spot, had asked him to tie her shoe, which he did. She had jabbered about something, as Higgins children do, and Spot had smiled at her. That’s all she needed. After silently agreeing to half-hug the middle daughter, who was fascinated with Spot in quite a different way, had been able to begin his search. 

Still, Race was nowhere to be found. 

“There you are!” Race found him first, as usual. 

Spot felt his arm being jerked to the side. He landed in a small nook of the hallway, between lockers and a strip of wall next to a wide door frame. The hallway was empty, save the two of them, and it gave an air of unease as well as power. They owned the school. 

“Hey,” Spot whispered to Race’s nose. Race swore and grabbed Spot’s hand, tearing him down the hallway and into a distant classroom. 

“You just...” Race breathed, closing the wood door and taking off his lopsided cap. “Look so…” The zipper on his robe was stuck so he just pulled it over his head. “ _So_ hot right now.” 

Spot laughed, skin reddening as he followed Race’s movements. Soon the classroom was theirs. 

***

The boys, after composing themselves, found themselves on the forever end of Medda’s camera. Still in their graduation attire, Race settled beneath Spot’s arm as it draped comfortably across his shoulders. Medda didn’t need to say smile.

***

Race had to work that summer. Some family obligation to his dad’s restaurant or whatever. Spot was grumbling too much to listen too hard. He had a job too - in a local newspaper office organizing files - but his inner priorities were not devoted to his occupation. Race held that position. 

Spot spent his free time in his room, writing or moping, depending on the prefered term. He was staring out the window when he heard footsteps. 

“Hey, Spot. Whatcha up to?” 

Spot continued to watch the leaves rustle in the summer wind as he replied to Jack. 

“Nothing.”

“Literally! You look so bored.” 

Spot turned to scowl at Jack, who was leaning in the door frame with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. He was wearing a Columbia t-shirt. 

“Nice shirt.” 

Jack had the confidence to look proud. Davey was going to Columbia in the fall. 

“Anniversary present?” 

“Jesus, Spot.” Jack was laughing, as he rolled his eyes. “We’re not together.”

Spot’s snorted and shook his head. Jack was settling on Spot’s unmade bed, ignoring Spot. 

“So when did you and Race start sleeping together?” 

Spot did not let himself twitch as he put on his best disgusted face and turned his chair. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“So you can joke about my nonexistent relationship with Davey but I can’t comment on your very obvious relationship with Race?” Jack was smug in his smile. 

“We’re friends, Jack.” 

“Like me and Davey?” 

“No, you and Davey are married. Race and I have a normal friendship.” 

Jack’s shoulders lowered. He had been hoping to tangle Spot in his own words. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Jack was quieter than usual, more serious than usual. 

Spot hesitated, before slowly saying, “I’m talking to you right now.” His eyes remained emotionless and steady, holding contact with the vulnerable eyes of Jack.

“You know I know about you guys, right? It wasn’t a guess.” Jack was not afraid of Spot. He was only afraid of making Spot uncomfortable. 

“You’re full of it.” Spot’s eyes were narrowed and his grip on his chair tightened, in frustration and to keep them steady. 

“You know I’m bi, right?” Jack cared about his brother. He wouldn’t be sitting on Spot’s dirty sheets trying to coax some emotion out of him if he didn’t care.

Spot thought for a second, considering his last six years with Jack. 

“Yeah, that makes sense.” He paused. That was comforting. “So you _are_ married to Davey?” Spot knew how to maneuver a conversation. 

“What? No! Just because I like guys too doesn’t mean I have to like _Davey_.” 

“So you don’t?”

“Fhgkshjg-”

“Exactly.” 

“Quit it. We’re friends.” 

“Yeah.” Spot turned in his chair, grabbing his pencil and sending Jack the message that he was done. 

“I like you guys together. You balance each other. Remember back in the day when all you guys would do was fight?” 

Spot didn’t answer, but Jack was smart. He knew people. 

“I’m glad you’ve channeled your affection into something healthier.” 

Spot whipped around, thinking of all the ways he could destroy Jack. 

“ _Affection_? I have no idea what that is.” 

“Yeah, right.” was all Jack got out before Spot pounced, jumping from his chair to the bed so that he could tackle Jack. Jack just laughed as Spot began growling. 

“What is going on in here?” 

Spot was digging his elbow into Jack’s back, earning nothing but a ticklish giggle from Jack. They both looked up to see Crutchie, grinning. 

“Spot’s pretending he’s not with Race.” 

“I’m _not_ with Race!” Spot continued to jab his brother’s back. 

Crutchie was smiling, serene and knowing all at once. 

“I hope you both figure out what’s important to you.” Then he balanced on his crutch and walked away. 

Spot glared at Jack, but got off of him. Jack didn’t say a word as he got up and walked towards the door. Spot was glaring out the window again when he heard Jack pause in the door frame. 

“You can lie to me all you want, but please stop lying to yourself, Sean.” 

Spot sighed and watched the wind go by. 

***

College was new. They were all still in the city and time would not wait for them. Spot felt like he always had something to do. His classes made him feel important, but they required a lot from him. He found himself thinking of Davey. He had always made homework feel like it was worthwhile. 

Spot made friends, sort of. There were people he spent time with. They talked to him about his papers or his band t-shirts. His roommate, Itey, whose real name Spot could not remember, was always willing to engage in conversation about iconic guitarists. Spot enjoyed his time at school. He even bought Medda a sweatshirt. 

Race was right down the street, having a ball. He came over to Spot’s dorm most weekends if he could, always laughing with some wild story to tell of his shenanigans. Spot liked to listen to Race. 

“And..and then, you’ll never believe this, he started ranting _in_ Italian and only us native speakers could understand what he was saying and the things he said about the whole thing was nuts. Absolutely nuts.” Race was sitting on Spot’s bed, cross legged and rocking with his laughter. Spot was next to him, leaning against the wall and smirking at Race. 

“You’re absolutely nuts.” 

Race winked and sighed contentedly. 

“What a gentleman.” 

Itey was gone for the weekend; he lived in New Jersey so he went home when he could. Spot could walk down the street to drop home, but some had to drive to see their family. Spot wondered when he had found a family worth seeing. 

After some comfortable silence, Race suggested a movie. They set up an old John Wayne film on Spot’s computer and lay down, the computer balancing on Spot’s hip bones. Race curled into Spot’s side. To get a better view, of course. 

Race fell asleep with fifteen minutes left. The end credits rolled and Spot sighed, on the verge of sleep himself. He closed his laptop with a yawn, leaning to slide it on the nightstand. 

“How’d it end?” A sleepy voice sang to Spot’s ear. 

“Horribly.” 

“Good.” 

Spot only laughed as he let himself relax. He was inches from sleep, centimeters. It was so close he felt it brush his skin as he floated into its grasp. He was barely in the living world when - 

“I love you.” 

Spot pretended he was asleep. 

***

It was raining the next morning. Race slept in, given the luxury of a Saturday morning. Spot was up before the sun, given the cumbersome gift of a constant mind. 

No love, no love, no love, no love, no love, no love, no love, no love, no love. 

Spot was sitting on his desk, wrapped around himself as he watched the rain. He had been repeating his lifelong mantra for hours. It hadn’t been long enough.

“Whatcha doing there, buddy?” 

Spot jumped a bit before shrugging. He wanted to turn around but he knew stupid Race wouldn’t be wearing a stupid shirt and that made Spot feel stupid. 

“You okay?” Spot heard the rustle of sheets and the soft pressure of Race’s feet on the carpet. Soon Race’s head was on Spot’s shoulder. He smelt like Race. Spot shoved him off. 

“Jesus, you’re not. What’s up?” Race seemed as though his skin was offended but his heart was concerned. 

“Nothing, Race. I’m fine.” 

“You’re a terrible liar.” 

“Am not.” Spot defensively glared at Race. Race’s hair was tangled within itself. Spot wanted to laugh and run his hands through it. He shook his head at himself. 

“You’re right. You are a good liar. But not to me, Spotty.” 

“Stop.” 

“What’s got you so prickly?”

“I’m always prickly.” 

Race laughed and rubbed his hand down Spot’s arm. Spot’s body betrayed him and shivered. 

“Yeah, you are. That’s what I-”

“I swear if you continue that sentence, Anthony.”

Race paused. He looked in Spot’s eyes, searching and hopeful. His lips were pursed in nerves. 

“Oh, I see. You’re gonna be a whiny coward about this.” 

“ _We’re not dating_! You don’t get to...feel...like that. About me.” Spot’s shoulders were contracting around his body. Stay small enough to hide, he remembered. 

“So you define yourself by labels, do you?” Race was too good. 

“What, I never said...you can’t do that! It’s not that simple!” 

“You love me, but you can’t say so because you don’t think you’re allowed to? Sounds kind of simple.” Race was backing up so he had room to pace. He was ready for battle. 

“I’m _not_ allowed to!” Spot didn’t realize the implications of his words, but Race did. His understanding warmed his heart and heated his ammunition. 

“Says who?” Race stopped pacing to stare at Spot, half a testing smirk on his lips. Spot wished that Race were ugly. 

“Says...I don’t know! Stop it!” Spot was shaking and shaking and his fingers were numbing. 

Race sighed when he saw Spot digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He walked over to Spot and held out his hands face-up, letting Spot take them himself. He did. Race ran his thumbs over the indents, resuming eye contact. 

“I love you.” 

“We’re still not dating.”

“Why not?” 

Spot didn’t want to think about it. Why _weren’t_ they dating? 

“Books are painless.” 

Race didn’t seem quite surprised by Spot’s response. He smiled knowingly. He had the right. Who knew Spot better than Race? 

“You have to know pain to appreciate them. Love is the same way.” 

Spot decided he liked that. Then he decided to kiss Race. 


End file.
